


Give Me Your Hand, I'll Take You Home

by SegaBarrett



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, allusion to non-con, season 5, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa visits Theon in the kennels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Your Hand, I'll Take You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own GoT and I make no money from this.
> 
> A/N: I got eager to write this after 5x6 and then it was Jossed by 5x7... But here it is! First GoT fic.
> 
> A/N 2: Title from "Threadbare" by Stone Sour.

Sansa wished that she had spent more time with Arya. Her little sister had always been bragging about her “dancing lessons” – what was that phrase she had used? “Swift as a deer”? And there had definitely been a “quiet as a…” in there somewhere, though Sansa probably had shushed her before she had gotten to that part.

Arya would have probably been much more at home sneaking into a kennel, too. Her sister would laugh if she could see her now.

She’d never heard news of Arya; she liked to think that she was still out there, somewhere. She could hug her and apologize for being so awful. Maybe they could be friends now. Arya must be… fourteen by now. 

She’d probably have a lot to say about the situation Sansa was in now, trapped and married to Ramsay Bolton. She would have told her to be swift as a deer, to kick him in the neck, to pin him and make a great escape.

But there wasn’t any escape, just like there hadn’t been an escape from Joffrey until the boy – the man – which was it? – was dead. 

Ramsay didn’t seem as if he would be dumb enough to drink from a poisoned goblet.

She took a deep breath and opened the door to the kennel. Maybe she could be so quiet that the dogs wouldn’t notice her, or maybe they’d be barking so loud that no one around would notice the difference.  
Not like Ramsay would really care, unless she got “boring”. She hated that horrible Myranda – if that woman wanted him, she could have him. 

For once, she wished that she was back with Tyrion. He had always tried to protect her, to keep her safe. 

She felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t slipped into his bed. Maybe then she could have seen what it was like; she figured most people didn’t do things the Ramsay kind of ways, or no one would have sex at all.

She brushed off that thought; it was a silly thing to think about now, after everything that had happened. Tyrion was probably dead by now, anyway. They had said that he was on trial for killing Joffrey, and they had suspected her too.

How she wished it was true. 

She had wrapped up some food from the dinner table, and she had a cup of water held awkwardly in her right arm. She tried not to spill it as she wobbled, back and forth, passing each kennel until she came to the only one with a human occupant. If Theon counted as that, these days.

His eyes were pressed shut in uneasy sleep as he lay on the ground, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to keep himself safe. No one was safe; not here.  
Sansa turned her head to see if Ramsay had followed her. 

He wasn’t there, at least not now, but it wouldn’t pay to linger.

“Theon,” she whispered. “Theon, wake up.”

She was hit full force by a thought – maybe he was dead. Maybe whatever Ramsay had been doing to him had weakened him to the point that he was gone, now, and she would be truly alone in this place, without anyone who knew her before.

“Theon,” she whispered again, and reached out; she didn’t quite touch him before he stirred, then opened his eyes and jerked around like a man who was being strangled to death. “Theon!” she whispered. “Shh!”

“Not Theon,” he mumbled, trying to curl his damaged hands in front of himself for protection. “Not Theon, m’lady, Reek.”

Sansa sighed; she didn’t understand what Ramsay had ever sought to gain by making Theon respond to this ridiculous name. It was like taunting an awkward child who he didn’t like – then again, it seemed that Ramsay could certainly be petty, along with sadistic and disloyal. He was gaining more and more adjectives by the day, and not a single one of them was anything positive.

How could Littlefinger leave her here? Had he been blinded by Ramsay’s shy act, or had he known all along what he was leading her into?

“Th… Reek, then. Come here.” She hadn’t meant the command to sound nearly as sharp as it did, but the kicked dog jerked up and whimpered as he moved close to her.

How, she wondered, had he punished him for the fact that she hadn’t taken his hand? Had it been making him watch? Or had it gone further? Just how much had Ramsay done in his efforts to strip away Theon and make him into some sort of slave?

“Oh, it’s okay.” Sansa’s internal voice reminded her of why she hated him, the awful thing he had done to Bran and Rickon. But her life had long since stopped consisting of anybody other than those who did awful, heartbreaking things. She tried to remember Theon as he had been when they were children, smiley and arrogant, always boasting. “I won’t hurt you, all right? I know it doesn’t help but I’ll… I’ll take your hand now.”

She offered her own, shivering with the chill. Theon quivered; his head darted around, seeming to wonder if this was a test, if Ramsay was hiding behind one of the hounds to leap out at him for doing something he hadn’t commanded.

Something must have given way, because the next thing she felt were Theon’s gloved hands in hers. She gave them a gentle squeeze and tried to meet his eyes.

“M’lady… It’s cold. You shouldn’t be here.” He turned away, but clung to her. Sansa blinked back tears; they wouldn’t help. They had never helped before.

“It’s cold,” she agreed, softly, and moved her hands to cup his back, to pull him close.

The feeling of another human being against her made her stomach wrench up, made her want to cry again. She almost thought that she did, as she heard sobbing against her ear.

But it was Theon whose tears were falling against her coat, dripping in tiny dots and freezing in the winter chill. Theon whose hands clumsily gripped her shoulder, who whispered for her to obey Ramsay, to not get herself hurt, to stay as safe as she could.

And almost as an afterthought, or like he was trying to sneak it by Ramsay himself, he whispered against her ear as it turned red, “…They’re alive.”


End file.
